


Staying Up - Thomas

by lokidiabolus



Series: Staying Up [16]
Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, Request Fill, thomas pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokidiabolus/pseuds/lokidiabolus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is for the requested Thomas point of view - from the beginning of Staying Up till the first forced kiss. Hope it helps to understand Thomas a bit more :) It's long, so I divided it to two chapters.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. 1st part

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the requested Thomas point of view - from the beginning of Staying Up till the first forced kiss. Hope it helps to understand Thomas a bit more :) It's long, so I divided it to two chapters.

“Look, I know it’s your first book and all that, but you _have_ to at least _try_ to keep the schedule,” the editor pinched the bridge of his nose and Thomas could see the annoyance playing on his face. He could understand. He hadn’t written anything since the last update, and that was 4 weeks ago. The deal was one chapter per month, _at least_. He couldn’t finish even one paragraph. He couldn’t even _try_.

“I can’t,” he mumbled, looking at his feet. He heard the editor sigh, exasperated and probably already fed up with him. “I just can’t.”

“Well, that’s awesome,” the editor’s voice grumbled, annoyed. “My time is too precious for lazy asses like you, seriously. You either want to write, or you don’t, there is no in between. You got one lousy unfinished chapter so far and what? Writer’s block? Seriously, you either pull yourself together or just give up!”

“Isn’t there a _normal_ editor in the whole office of yours?” Minho suddenly spoke up, his voice angry. “The fuck is wrong with you people. It’s not like he has a fucking deadline.”

“Look, sunshine,” the editor snapped. “I get that you know shit about how editor’s work goes, but this lazy ass is _my_ responsibility. No results mean _my_ fault. So I’m terribly sorry for not being all peachy when he didn’t give me _shit_ for the whole month!”

Thomas felt like throwing up, his body shook. He couldn’t listen to it, he couldn’t talk and he definitely couldn’t write. He almost missed when the editor left, only a loud bang of the door closing woke him up from the trance, and Minho’s swearing that filled the air.

“What an idiot, seriously!” the Asian growled. “Fucking people in there, you don’t need them! Just write how you need, no one needs to rush you, jesus.”

He needed to get out of here. The room was suffocating him.

“I’m going out,” he said stiffly and ignored Minho’s surprised look. He grabbed his jacket and a scarf and shot out of the flat as fast as he could. He needed the fresh air; he needed to watch anonymous faces to calm down, to stop thinking. And for how much he liked Minho and appreciated his concern, he couldn’t stand talking anymore, not to him, not to anyone.

He didn’t know for how long he had been walking. He went through several alleys, crossed too many streets, but the calmness kept on escaping him, his mind whirling, preoccupied with an illogical fear. He thought he could do it. He had so many great ideas for the story, a great plot, it all played amazingly in his head. But when he put it on the paper, it was _wrong_. No matter how hard he tried, it only laughed back at him, sentences without sense, paragraphs without order, pages without form.

He stopped once he realized he is out of breath, because he had suddenly been running. Since when? For how long? He didn’t even notice. The wind was unmerciful, swiping around him and he found himself standing near a bus stop, watching people clutching their coats, shivering because of the surprising cold during October.

His eyes skimmed from person to person – an older woman with furry coat and a strange hat, a couple of young people warming the other up with close proximity, a group of frowny businessmen with ties and suits, long coats and thin cases in their hands. A blond youngster trembling under the attack of the wind, his long, elegant neck bare and apparently freezing. His face was a pure mask of full concentration to stop the shivers, deep brown eyes so intense and fiery Thomas found himself captivated by them. He radiated a strange strength, an amazing amount of charisma, just by his posture, his expression, the quiet force that bloomed from inside of his whole being.

It hit Thomas like a truck. Suddenly his mind quieted down, it almost shut completely. Vivid images started to spout inside of his head as in a theatre, scenes and situations, all kind of descriptions, life and death, love and hate, and everything was crowned by _him_. Such a simple thing, to _see_ somebody for the first time in his life, and yet so powerful and endearing.

He couldn’t take his eyes off him. He found unable to, as if an invisible power had drawn him near, as if a gravity field around this single being pulled him close and refused to let go. He felt his lips widening in a smile, almost unconsciously, an expression he almost forgot he can do. It felt a little alien on his lips, yet so familiar and fulfilling.

For the first time in half a year he felt _alive_ and _ready_ to face what life was going to throw at him, just because of this random person, a beacon of light in the constant darkness, brightening his whole perception, making him _want_ to write again, to create, to show others _his_ world.

He helped him. This beautiful man, standing tall and proud in the midst of strangers, cold but still strong and fierce. He felt deeply in debt, the flow of thoughts, the inspiration, it all came from him.

“A muse,” he mumbled to himself.

His body moved accordingly, approaching the blond carefully, thinking hard about his next step, until he felt his mouth opening and words flooding out by themselves.

“Wow, you look like you are going to freeze any second,” he said, stopping in front of the man. He noticed the surprise, the hesitant glance and confused expression before the blond probably analysed him if he knew him or not. When he seemingly settled on the negative answer, he shuffled and cleared his throat before he spoke up.

“It’s kinda cold,” his voice was laced with an accent; Thomas just wasn’t very sure which. It was barely noticeable, but there. In overall the voice was pleasant, soothing almost. It made him smile a bit more; a streak of comfortable warmth flooded his veins.

“Here,” he unwounded his scarf quickly, offering it to the blond happily. He couldn’t really tell him what went through his head, could he? This was the best way to express his gratitude. “I was planning on donating it to goodwill anyway. You look like you need it more.”

The eyes of the man widened.

“Uh…” he voiced, watching him dubiously, and Thomas had to admit it was pretty much what he expected as a reaction.

“Take it, I insist,” he rose the scarf a little higher, but the blond only frowned more, staring at the garment as if it was a deadly animal ready to bite him. Thomas chuckled at that and took the scarf back, spreading it and dusting it off. Maybe he didn’t want it because Thomas already wore it? It wasn’t a new piece, the writer had to admit. But it was his favourite scarf, and warm on top of that. He couldn’t think of a better token of gratitude than this at the moment.

“It’s not like it’s a snake that’s going to strangle you, yeah?” he pointed out, presenting the scarf spread wide. The blond didn’t really react, only watched him suspiciously, and Thomas decided in a matter of seconds. He leaned towards the man quickly and put the scarf around his neck without his consent, tying it into a precise knot, grinning in victory.

“There,” he exclaimed happily.“Now it should be better.”

With that he turned around and left the place, suddenly full of energy and ideas. It was perfect.

***

“Are you on drugs?” Minho stared at him without an ounce of understanding. “Did you smoke weed?”

“No?” he replied with a wide grin and continued writing. On his way home the Chief Janson from the office called him, asking about the book and all, and Thomas promised him to continue. He suggested not having an editor at all, but the Chief offered him another person, for the sake of his own mood and the patience of the one he had before. They dealt with it calmly and the Chief was actually very open to the change, keen on him to continue writing, and promising to send the new editor by today. Thomas was ecstatic and the story flowed like water under his fingers, easily and it felt _right_.

“Don’t lie to me, Thomas. What the fuck did you do now?”

“Have a little faith in me,” Thomas answered with a shrug, his mood too good to take Minho’s vocabulary to his heart. He wrote and wrote, all the things that didn’t make any sense before suddenly had the perfect order and changed easily into his dream storyline. Ha managed to write two more chapters as if it was nothing, and he had to admit Minho was a little right to doubt his sanity. He doubted it pretty long by himself anyway.

“You gonna keep writing I take it?” Minho stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. “What about the editor guy?”

“I got a call from the office. Got a different one,” Thomas replied in a low voice, focused fully on the text. “It’s gonna be fine. He should come by today.”

“Guess the boss guy is pretty tolerant then?” the Asian said matter-of-factly and Thomas nodded, his eyes skimming through the paragraph. He couldn’t get the blond out of his head, the image of him kept on returning, playing the main part. Thomas wasn’t able to stop it, but to be honest – he didn’t even try. The feeling he got from the guy was still strong in his head and urged him forward. He never had inspiration this strong and it was overwhelmingly addictive.

“Hey, check this out,” Minho interrupted him once more, newspaper in hand. “Aries. Today you will get challenged. Do not back down, it is an important moment. Don’t underestimate your partner, take them for a nice dinner, the argument should be forgotten by tonight if you work hard. Well, my dear friend. I expect a nice dinner with candles.”

“We’re not having an argument,” Thomas chuckled, glancing at the Asian who was grinning back at him.

“Worth a shot,” Minho shrugged and skimmed through the rest of the newspaper until he found the criss-cross he was looking for, diving into that.

“A challenge, huh,” Thomas muttered to himself, looking back at the text. “Sounds about right.”

***

He heard the doorbell only faintly, but knew Minho was going to open, so he finished coffee first and after that got back to the door.

“Who is it?” he asked calmly, approaching the Asian leaning over the door frame.

 “I dunno, a cute guy,” Minho responded without a single glance back and Thomas peeked at the visitor, hearing the beginning of the introduction of “I am New-”, but stopping right the moment Thomas appeared.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Blond hair, fierce brown eyes – it was the guy from the bus stop! His muse, his saviour. Standing at his doorway, looking as surprised as Thomas felt, staring back.

“Hey, it’s you!” Thomas exhaled happily. The sheer excitement flooded his veins like a liquid fire. “That was fast, wow. If you are here because of the scarf-.”

“Oh, that scarf did look a bit familiar,” Minho butted into the conversation abruptly and it made the blond stiffen and grab the garment, pulling it off as if he just realized he still had it on.

“I am not here because of this,” he uttered, and pushed it back into Thomas’ arms, which made the writer confused. He gave it to him, why was he giving it back? It wasn’t like he just lent it. “I am the new editor-,”

“No way,” Thomas couldn’t believe his ears, all thoughts about the scarf forgotten. This couldn’t be! That would be too amazing, too coincidental! “That’s amazing! What a coincidence, right? Must be fate! Come on, come in, I am Thomas. Minho, get out of the way!

“What am I, a dog?” Minho _tsked_ , but disappeared inside the flat with a shrug, making space for Thomas to see the blond fully. He was _gorgeous_ , no other words for it. He couldn’t even find the right words, all those useless phrases of description flooding his head, but they just didn’t fit enough.

“Sorry about that, he is lacking manners,” he grinned at him, pushing the jumbled thoughts back, still a little disbelieving this was really happening. How lucky! He thought he was _blessed_ when he saw him at the bus stop, but this was like a message from some higher force, like saying _here you go, your personal angel, take care_. “I got a call you are coming, but it was faster than I thought.”

“I see,” the blond said simply, his tone a little flat. Thomas quickly stepped away to let him through and the new editor nodded shorty, entering.

“Sorry for the mess,” Thomas quickly apologized, watching the blond with a shame blooming inside of him. The flat was messy, dirty dishes and clothes all around, and he couldn’t ignore how the man looked around, scanning the area. “I am not really big on that.”

“He would drown in garbage, that’s what he is,” Minho suddenly appeared from the kitchen, that cheeky bastard. “So that went fast, right? That previous guy was a dickhead.”

“Gally is a little unorthodox,” the new editor opposed coldly. “But he is an excellent editor.”

“I don’t doubt he is, he edited my good mood in a second,” Minho snickered and Thomas shushed him, watching the blond frowning at that. Minho and his smart remarks, always and at every possible situation, tactless to the max. It apparently didn’t make the new guy happy, not at all. Thomas definitely didn’t want to get on his bad side, not him, never.

“Yeah, sorry about the change, it just didn’t really work out,” he apologized profusely, hoping to convey the message as the best as he could. “I hope it didn’t make a mess in your schedules or something. I thought I can go without an editor, but got assured it’s not a problem.”

“It’s not,” the blond nodded shortly. “Although it was fast, I didn’t have time to even look what I am dealing with. Do you have a manuscript somewhere I can borrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas quickly hopped to his computer, rummaged through drawers and pulled out a stack of neatly bound papers, handing them to the man with a nervous smile. When he was writing, it felt great, he felt good about it. But now, giving it to him, a self-doubt crashed into him again, a nervousness that made him insecure about the opinion.

“It’s just a beginning, three chapters, so…” Good thing he printed it before the blond came, but he wasn’t sure about a possible misspelling, since he wrote it so fast. He wanted him to like it. He _hoped_ he was going to like it. It was thanks to him after all.

“Did Gally edit it already?” the blond skimmed through it fast and Thomas shook his head.

“No. Well. Yes, a bit of a first chapter before we got um… off the track,” he pushed his hands to the jeans’ pocket and swung on his feet, trying to mask his nervousness.

“Alright. I will read it and send you some more info later,” the new editor said flatly and it took Thomas a little back, surprised by such coldness. “Take care till then.”

“Uh, wait,” he writer stopped him quickly when the blond turned away to leave. “Don’t you wanna stay at least for a coffee or something? So we can, you know, get to know each other better?”

He really wanted to know him better. He craved for it. He sounded so unattached now, for all the charisma he radiated, this strange coldness surprised Thomas to no end. He hoped he could get past the barrier, maybe a defence mechanism, professionalism. Just knowing this man would be enough, Thomas reminded himself. Just to know him.

“No, thanks,” the blond uttered and raised the binding. “Have lots of work now.”

“Yeah… right, sorry,” Thomas felt his hopes dropping somewhere dark and abandoned. Of course it was out of the question, it must have been some profession standard or something. “Thanks again. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Happens,” the blond shrugged, reaching for the door. “Will text you around the evening I suppose.”

“Cool,” Thomas piped, watching him grabbing the handle, and then realizing he was still holding the scarf. The bare neck of the man screamed _cold_ miles away and something strange surged inside of him. A mark, the twisted, possessive part of him said. Just a little token of gratitude, the normal side shouted. He acted before he could think and put the scarf back on the man’s neck, tucking it neatly under the coat.

“I don’t really-,” the blond started but Thomas rose his hand to stop him.

“It’s pretty cold. Just keep it. Please,” he said in a small voice. He knew it sounded needy and desperate, but he felt he had to, giving him his thank you. “For me.”

And the blond did.

***

Minho thought he went mad. He didn’t blame him. He was so engrossed in his work he barely had time to counter all Minho’s remarks he had, or comments he spouted on the blond muse that entered Thomas’ life so unexpectedly.

“I don’t know his name,” he suddenly sat straight, that thought shot right through him. Minho raised his head from the criss-cross he was filling up, lying sprawled on the couch.

“His name?”

“Yeah, he didn’t say his name?” he turned to look at the Asian, watching him expectantly. Maybe he introduced to him before Thomas arrived to the door?

“No clue,” Minho disappointed him with a shrug. “I didn’t catch anything. Ask him, you have his number, right?”

“Oh right,” the writer quickly found the e-mail he got from the chief with the telephone number written there and quickly typed a hasty message, hoping the number was right.

**_-Hey, it’s Thomas! Sorry to be a bother, but I just realized I don’t even know your name? I know you are busy and all, I just thought about it, assumed asking never hurt anyone, yeah? :-) T.-_ **

He sent it after re-reading it 10 times at least, checking for mistakes or any sign of forcefulness, and put the phone back on the table. Was he going to reply immediately? Or not at all? He knew it was still too soon for the text he promised about the piece, so maybe he was too busy?

Minutes passed. No answer. Then suddenly his phone lit up and Thomas scrambled for it almost too fast it made Minho snicker from behind him.

 **- _It’s Newton_.- ** Said the text shortly.

“Newton,” Thomas repeated the name, trying it on his tongue. The Pacific Rim movie immediately popped up in his head and he replied even faster than the rational part of his brain caught up with him and stopped him from sending another text.

**_-Oh, like from the Pacific Rim? Can I call you Newt?-_ **

“That sounds so old,” Minho commented. “Like for a grandfather.”

“Newt sounds cool,” Thomas opposed, clutching the phone in his hand hopefully.

“Like a lizard,” his friend commented with a snort. “Why are you so worked up about him?”

“I’m not,” Thomas mumbled, little ashamed Minho caught that vibe already. “I’m just… glad I can write again?”

“I saw your dreamy eyes,” the Asian hopped of the couch, walking at Thomas’ chair, leaning over the backrest. “Spill the beans.”

“It’s nothing,” Thomas insisted.

“Pretty blond nothing then,” Minho smirked. “It’s cool; you can tell me you think he’s cute.”

“It’s not about that…” Thomas sighed, playing with his phone impatiently. Still no answer and he was getting restless. Impatience was one of his weak sides he hated. Of course, he would be lying. The blonde was cute. He was tall and lean, his face adorable and eyes intense. He could describe him with millions of words and still not be done, but this was deeper, more complicated. Something he didn’t want to share, because it felt intimate. He trusted Minho with his life, no doubt about it. But this – this was his, and his only.

A muse. A beacon. An anchor.

“If you say so,” Minho ruffled his hair with a laugh and disappeared into the kitchen. Thomas took a deep breath and his irrational part of him texted _Newt_ one more time.

**_-I take it as a yes :P-_ **

***

Thomas was sometimes annoying even to himself. He buried himself in writing, but the lack of response on Newton’s side bothered him immensely. He felt the familiar waves of intensity, the need to know, the craving that didn’t let him get away with _waiting_ and _hoping_.

After each paragraph he checked his phone again and again, and when nothing came, he started to send a text after a text, trying to get him talking, to break the unapproachable shell that was separating them so well.

**_-I think Newt is pretty badass nickname, you know.-_ **

No response.

**_-Are you seriously that busy for a text?-_ **

Silent phone.

**_-A simple yes would suffice, you know.-_ **

He gave up after that. Such tactic often worked, it either piqued the person so much they replied (angrily, but replied), or it made them amused and it broke the ice. But Newton stayed quiet and ignored Thomas profusely, which bothered him terribly.

He worked on the text a bit more, one more chapter done and half of it on the way, when at half past four Minho decided he was bored and they should go sit out. Thomas wasn’t surprised he picked the ramen shop and Minho only gave him a cheeky smile before ordering both of them a steaming bowl of noodles.

Thomas didn’t even manage to start the food when his phone beeped with a new e-mail, and he checked it with raised eyebrows. People usually texted him or called, and Newton said he was going to text as well, so a mail surprised him. His heart almost stopped when he opened it and saw the sender’s name as “Newton”.

Hello Thomas,

I’ve went through the manuscript you gave me and here are some first notes I took. I’ve noticed your main character is without a name or a description for the whole time. It gives freedom to the reader I admit, but it is preferred for the character to have a form, at least a foreshadowed one (hair, eyes, posture or maybe a significant mark).

As a reader I enjoyed your describing talent, and except few insignificant changes of a form (or repeated words) I think you are very good at that.

I’d like to suggest another meeting where we can consult all the possibilities I’ve mustered, go through harder passages to smooth it a bit, if you are willing.

Sincerely, Newt (yes, you can call me that)

Thomas choked out something between laugh and sob and Minho eyed him suspiciously, his mouth stuffed with noodles.

“Wut?” he spluttered the soup all over when he tried to talk, but Thomas hadn’t even noticed how he became engrossed in the reply.

Hi Newt! (really, really badass) Sure, let’s meet, are you off work now? How about we meet in an hour? Either in a city or my place, your choice. Thomas

He thrummed his fingers excitedly, his whole body sizzling with energy. Newt liked the text. He _enjoyed_ it. He liked the descriptions. He _praised_ him. And he wanted to _meet_ again and _help_ him. It couldn’t get any better than this, a perfect top Thomas set for himself – making him interested in the book, getting him talking to him and helping with the whole piece. A perfect setting for real, how come this day was so lucky?

No reply came for too long and Thomas’ last ounce of patience went flying somewhere, because he picked up his phone and called Newt instead, feeling it was better and faster to talk like that than by mail. He was probably off work anyway, and he didn’t want to keep him there any longer.

“Need to go, will call you later, yeah?” he patted Minho on his back and the Asian blinked in confusion, but didn’t manage to say anything, because Thomas was already out of the building, holding a hand up for a taxi. He immediately caught one and made him to drive to the office.

“Yeah?” an unsure answer came from the phone right after the ringing stopped and Thomas’ stomach fluttered with excitement.

“Hey, so have you decided?” he grinned happily, staring out of the window and noting the long waiting line that was lying in between him and Newt now.

“I really didn’t mean today, I’ve just fi-,”

“Hey hey, it’s all good,” Thomas interrupted him with a small laugh. Poor guy, he probably gave him a heart-attack with his impatient streak. He tapped the driver on his shoulder and gave him money, exiting the car hastily and deciding to run there instead. “I am not intending to kidnap you or anything, you wanted to talk business, yeah?”

“Well, yes, but it can wait,” Newt replied and his tone sounded a bit irked. “It’s late already.”

“It’s just five, _Newt_ ,” Thomas countered, trying the nickname and deciding he liked the sound of it. It suited the blond so much. “Dinner maybe? You sound hungry.”

“I am not _hungry,_ ” Newt barked back and Thomas almost didn’t catch the last phrase when he took a sharp turn and his phone almost jumped out of his hand. “I am _tired_.”

“My place then?” he offered, his breath getting shorter and ragged. “You can rest no problem in here. Will order pizza or something, sounds good?”

“Look, Thomas,” Newt voice sounded a little angry now – not a good sign. He didn’t mean to make him mad. “I don’t know how else I should imply I am _not going anywhere today_ for you to understand, so there you have it bluntly – not today!”

Thomas stopped guiltily in front of the building, looking up and then at the entrance door. Well, since he was already here…

“Ah, but I am already here,” he breathed out and just a few seconds after the entrance door opened and Newt appeared with his coat unbuttoned and holding the scarf in his free hand. He was still holding the phone next to his ear and it took him a moment before he realized all the facts and hid the phone in his pocket, glaring at Thomas with a displeased expression.

“Well. Since I am already here,” Thomas hid the phone as well, stepping closer nervously. He didn’t mean to spook him, but he just made him angry and the horoscope thing flashed in his mind like a warning sign. Dinner, right? Work hard and the argument was going to be forgotten by tonight. He took a deep breath and tried to push his luck a little further. “Let’s go eat anyway?”

Newt threw the scarf at him.


	2. 2nd part

“I love the one with chilli,” he recommended with a smile when Newt eyed the menu suspiciously. “It’s not too spicy, but not too bland. You should try it.”

The bistro was his favourite place where to grab a good food and wasn’t far from the office. He noticed Newt having troubles with fast walking, not too noticeable, but even the slightest limp must have bothered his right leg, so he tried to make it easier for him.

“Yeah, whatever,” Newt mumbled, putting the menu on the table. Thomas ordered for both of them when the waiter came, hoping the food would be alright for the blond as well (he really liked that one), and focused back at the editor with curiosity.

“So you liked it?” he nudged him with his knee under the table and Newt jolted, glaring at him. Thomas smiled innocently and added: “The story I mean.”

He apparently didn’t like being dragged for dinner by his client, Thomas gathered as much. A different tactic might be better, but he needed to understand, to know how Newt ticked. He seemed complicated and closed off to the world. It was a big challenge and Thomas never backed up from those.

“Yes,” Newt edged a little further (a personal space issues then, Thomas mused) and pulled the coat off his shoulders. It was a good sign at least, he finally didn’t look like was going to bolt out of the door any moment. “You are talented and fluid with words, I like it.”

“Glad to hear that,” Thomas said lightly, looking into his phone, searching for the mail Newt sent him. “So… the character’s name or description…”

“You should establish at least something for the reader to relate to,” Newt caught up immediately. “The absolute freedom can be nice for someone, but I’d recommend giving the character a form, at least a vague one. Hair colour or… his build, something important about his look. The namelessness doesn’t need to be a problem if you avoid constant pointing out that can get old.”

“Oh,” Thomas blinked few times. It was a perfect notion. He didn’t even thought about it before, but Newt was right. He just never found the right form for the main character – until now, that is. The best impression of his “hero” was sitting right in front of him, suddenly looking much more relaxed, and almost smiley when he was talking about the book. “Alright. So where should I put the description? The beginning?”

“You can easily divide it into all you have now, pointing small things out gradually. At the beginning mention his build maybe, when he struggles in the desert. You can easily sneak a colour of his hair into sand mentioning as well,” Newt explained fluidly, pulling out the print, browsing through the pages. His whole body language changed so much, the closed off aura as if disappeared completely and Thomas couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched his long, elegant fingers touching the pages swiftly, the free strands of blond hair falling into his eyes, how he unconsciously licked his lips when he stopped talking for a moment, the humming noise when he thought about something. All those small details dragged Thomas deeper and deeper into his personal hell. “I made notes at words that are repeating too close to each other at the sides, as well as formulations that could be handled better.”

“Cool,” Thomas piped. He wasn’t able to say anything more for how enticed he was. Newt raised his head questioningly, and his body stiffened once more.

“What?” he asked coldly and Thomas shrugged.

“Nothing,” he realized he was smiling stupidly, but the expression just didn’t want to go away. He couldn’t stop looking even if he tried to. “Just analysing you.”

“Analysing me?”

“Yeah. That’s what I do. Helps with the description of stuff when you look at something longer and chant it in your head,” Thomas nodded and his smile grew wider. “It helps with memorizing as well.”

He always had that gift (at first he thought it’s a curse, seeing stuff like he did, remembering stupid details like small scars or wrinkled dress when other boys his age couldn’t even say what they wore yesterday or how their teacher really looked like). He had an urge to know everything at some point. Not only _see_ , but also _touch_ and really _understand_ how things worked, how they felt, how they tasted. He spent long hours with one object in hands, trying to find the right words and then put it on paper – it gave him a wholesomely different perspective on things. He strived for perfectionism in his writing, even that in life he was a seriously messy person.

He noticed how Newt fidgeted nervously and thought about it a little more. He wanted him to understand, to _show_ him how those things could work, a different insight. He wanted him to _know_ Thomas himself, how he saw the world.

“Sometimes looking is not enough when you want to know the structure or consistency,” he continued, leaning forward slowly. It was bold, he knew that. But he decided to push a little and find the borders sooner than later. “And then you have to touch to find a better word for the texture depending on the result.”

Newt’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed put, even when he saw Thomas’ hand raising up, reaching for him. That was a good sign and it gave Thomas a bit more courage to proceed.

“Of course you can always go for _soft_ when you see something that looks like it, but what if it’s not? What if it’s _silky_ or _smooth_ , or what if it’s actually _rough_ and _unyielding_?” Thomas looked at Newt’s hair, thinking of touching it, to _know_ , because he really, _really_ wanted to, but then his hand as if it had a mind on its own changed the trajectory. “So you have to _touch_ , because you never know…”

A light touch of his hand on Newt’s cheek made his heart beat wild and he moved his fingers curiously until a smack over his knuckles made him return back to reality, realizing he probably took it too far. He pulled his hand back with a chuckle, rubbing it slightly after the slap Newt landed on it.

“Do not bloody touch me,” the blond hissed warningly, his cheeks suddenly pink. Thomas repressed the urge to call him cute, and then it suddenly hit him.

“Newt, are you British?” he asked, earning a frown in return.

“Yes, so?”

“Nothing, just your accent is pretty cool when you get pissed,” Thomas grinned, happy he finally originated the accent, and another deadly glare landed in his direction. At that point he was rather glad the waiter brought them their food.

***

Even against all odds of Newt being rather pissed at him during the dinner it ended in a pleasant notion, and it made Thomas relaxed when they parted. Newt was an interesting person, only with walls of defence so high Thomas was going to need a mountaineer equipment to get over it. But he hadn’t had a single doubt that the hard work of doing so was worth the effort.

He found himself drawn to him like a moth to the flame. There was the danger of getting burned and crash, he couldn’t say the opposite. He wasn’t a complete idiot; he felt Newt wasn’t very keen on sharing something more profound with him, if it didn’t include the work. But he had stubbornness issues, and the more he thought about the man, the more he wanted to know.

He worked on the description until late as Newt recommended, adding small things to the text, and it fitted like a fine piece of puzzle. He wrote first paragraphs and re-read it after, stopping after the second one in awe.

**_…his eyes almost black, even that the deep brown usually dominated. You could get lost in the color if you weren’t careful, the captivating gleam of sharp wit and highly guarded emotions seizing._ **

“It’s Newt,” he realized in wonder. He stared at the text, completely shocked by the revelation, but it was right. He _fit_. It was Newt and it sounded amazing.

_I’ve been looking closer than I thought._

Newt’s eyes were mesmerizing. They captivated Thomas from the first moment at the bus stop, sharp and fierce. The deep brown colour was rich and he felt like drowning when he stared into those two pools of the abyss.

It was strange, but at the same time completely natural. Thomas couldn’t find the reason – his social understanding and possibility to act like a normal human being diminished a lot past last year, but now it seemed like it all came back with full force, showing him the possibilities.

Newt showed him the possibilities. And he didn’t even know it.

**_For how much he wasn’t wide and bulky he compensated it with tall and lean build, fast and clever._ **

**_…an old injury returning with vengeance. He could barely walk and with each step the agony grew, his limp even more obvious._ **

The limp. Thomas wondered how that happened. He wasn’t going to ask, he had some manners, but he could still stay curious. An old injury? An illness? He couldn’t say. It wasn’t even that apparent and if Thomas hadn’t been such an observer, he would probably miss it too.

He finished the description gingerly and saved it. His mind refused to shut down until he finally fell asleep.

***

He woke up at 9, still terribly sleepy, but forced himself to get up and check the notebook anyway. An e-mail with revised text jumped out right the moment he looked into his folder and he blinked in surprise when he saw the time. It showed 5AM, a painfully early hour.

He couldn’t sleep? Or was he waking up so early? He reached for his phone, typed fast and sent the text to the editor, yawning loudly.

**_-Wow, you sent it at 5? Did you even sleep?-_ **

He quickly sent his description-filled part and when no answer came within a minute, he decided to throw in a little more, to make it sound less crude.

**_-But hey, that’s pretty cool, thanks! I sent you some stuff I added for the character description as well, you have it on your e-mail.-_ **

He hummed for a while and then added slowly another bit, trying to sound cheerful.

**_-Also thanks for y-day. I enjoyed it :-)-_ **

He only hoped it didn’t sound too annoying and that Newt wasn’t as angry as he had been in the beginning of dinner – at least he didn’t look like had. And since he actually continued his work and no threatening message came, Thomas hoped he did alright.

After all, the horoscope said so, right? Not that he was too keen on that, but when it came true, it made him a little more humble.

His phone blinked with a text few minutes later and Thomas chuckled at Newt’s strict way of answering. No smileys, no niceties. Only a formal retort.

**_-I will look at it later, have a meeting atm.-_ **

He replied immediately, his body slowly waking up and the pleasure of talking to this man making him all excited again.

**_-No prob. Are you free this evening?-_ **

He remembered very well how keen Newt was on the business stuff, so he hastily added a note, so Newt didn’t think he was after him like a blood hound.

**_-We can talk work, I will behave :-)-_ **

_Which… I probably am._

An answer came a little faster now and it made Thomas bark a laugh. Typically Newt, and he didn’t even know the blond that well yet.  

**_-Work meetings like that are usually once per week, do you realize that?-_ **

The bantering with this guy could have been fun if he was up to it, so he tried to take it up a notch, to see where the limits laid.  

**_-It doesn’t need to be a work meeting :P-_ **

No answer came and Thomas found himself snickering all the way to the bathroom. He was still smiling when he moved to the kitchen and made himself coffee, and if Minho was here and knew what was going on (even though Thomas tried not to tell him, he was pretty sure what would Minho say. _Don’t get too attached_. _Don’t push it. That’s not how normal people behave. Keep low profile. I will strap you to the couch and feed you dog food for a week!_ ), he would bet with him about the answer. He thought Newt’s text will be either “No” or “Not interested”. There could be also something more sharp like “Who do you think I am?” to “Don’t push your luck, punk” – even though the last one sounded more like Minho than the blond.

He was halfway through his coffee and watching news when his phone buzzed with an unexpected text in it.

**_-Let’s meet up at 3.-_ **

Thomas felt the panic swelling in his throat and butterflies going crazy in his stomach.

_Fuck. That’s bad._

***

Thomas spent 6 hours freaking out. The time flashed around him faster than he wanted and he found himself literally afraid of what was going to happen.

_Let’s meet at 3._

Just like that? It didn’t match Newt’s profile, not at all. So why? He waited in front of the office and felt like sitting on something pointed and sharp that was biting into his body. When Newt appeared at the entrance, he looked seriously pissed off and Thomas stomach dropped at that. The shit was going to hit the fan very soon and he couldn’t think any harder of how to make it better.

“Uh oh, pissy face,” he tried to joke, his first and probably the only line of defence, and the scowl only got more intense. He tried the most ridiculous possibility and offered the first thing that came to his mind. “Wanna grab pizza somewhere and move it to my place?”

“Good idea,” Newt gritted out and Thomas felt like he just signed his death sentence. And so he babbled. He always babbled when nervous, the need to fill the silence with stupid talk. He was very well aware how idiotic he had to sound, how his talk had to get on the blonde’s nerves, but it was still better than keeping quiet and let the silence suffocate him. They picked pizzas and moved it to Thomas’ apartment only along the sound of the writer’s voice. Newt kept his unpleased expression and didn’t say much, if anything. He kept on it all the way to their destination, until Thomas closed the door behind them and asked for Newt’s favourite colour, just to keep the talk flowing and make him join the conversation, rather than dealing with the silent treatment.

“Why?” Newt stopped in the hallway and gave Thomas a disagreeing look. “So you can use it in your book too?”

“Oh, haha. Busted,” Thomas felt his heart in his throat, and all he could do was a stupid wink and made himself busy with cleaning the couch (he could have spent the 6 hours better than with freaking out, that for sure. The room looked like a clothes bomb exploded in the middle). He was trying to find the suitable excuse, a proper explanation, but nothing normal came to his mind. All sounded creepy and like a catalyst for Newt to bite his head off.

“So?” Newt crossed his arms on the chest, watching him expectantly when Thomas just sat down and looked at him. Time. He needed more time. More time to think. He wasn’t ready.

“So what?”

“So you maybe want to explain why you made the main character look like me?”

Being naïve definitely wasn’t Newt’s trait. Of course he noticed, he would have to be blind to not see it. Thomas realized it was foolish, and probably absolutely crazy to do it, to use his whole persona without consent. But when he wrote it, it felt right. Like it belonged. It made the character _alive_ and he wasn’t even properly sure why. It just _happened_.

“I think it fits,” he tried to keep calm while replying. Newt stared at him doubtfully and Thomas felt like the right words were escaping his reach. “And you apparently liked it. Since I met you at the bus stop, it just happened.”

“What happened?” Newt breathed out, his doubt morphed into a shock.

“I kept on seeing him as you,” Thomas mumbled, thinking the truth was better than some half-baked lies. It made him unsure about the proceedings and a little scared of the reception, but he still kept at it, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. “Every time I thought about him. It was you.”

He couldn’t help it. He tried to change the character, to make him different, but it all crumbled without it, so he just gave up, already too deep in that mess.

Newt opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried it several more times, shuffled on his feet, and tried again, until it came out as _why_ without any other words connected to it. A simple, yet very difficult question to answer.

“I dunno,” Thomas replied, feeling unsure himself. He tried to understand it too, but he just didn’t until now. “It just happened. I was thinking of one scene, picturing the scenery and then suddenly bam! And you were there. All tall and proud and determined looking like you were on the bus stop and I thought – well, why not? The horoscope said do not back down from a challenge after all.”

“A horoscope?” Newt repeated incredulously. Thomas could see he was questioning his sanity, and he was probably right. Thomas spent half a year doing that.

“Yeah, it’s not like I believe in that crap, but hey, it sounded cool for once and it came true too!” he tried to look cheerful and confident, suddenly jumping to his feet, walking to the table and rummaging through the papers on top of it. He knew Minho left the newspaper in there somewhere (when the criss-cross was too difficult for him to finish at that day, but he promised to look at it later again) and turned back to the blond. 

“Today you will get challenged. Do not back down, it is an important moment. Don’t underestimate your partner, take them for a nice dinner, the argument should be forgotten by tonight if you work hard,” he read it fluidly and Newt paled as if he just read how he was going to die or something equally terrifying. He tried to make it more jovial, so he smiled broadly. “See? Cool, isn’t it? There was a challenge and there also was dinner, and I think it was a success? I was trying my best.”

Newt stared at him. He stared and stared and Thomas’ hand twitched nervously, afraid of the next reaction in line. When the laughter came, he wasn’t ready. Such hysterical reaction shook Newt’s body violently he even cried from it and Thomas was lost. A good sign? A bad sign? No clue. No possible explanation came to his confused mind.

“So you,” Newt hiccupped with another string of giggles coming from his mouth, “you decided to take me out for dinner because of _that_?”

“Maybe,” Thomas fidgeted. He took him out because he wanted to know him better. To analyse him properly. To check, to see, to know. The horoscope was only an icing on the top, a blessing from some higher force, as if it was telling him that choice was right. “But I wanted to know you better too.”

“Well, now you know me,” Newt wiped tears from his eyes, stifling upcoming giggles inside.

“No, I don’t,” Thomas mumbled. Nothing added up with him. At one point he thought he placed him to the right column, he understood. The next Newt suddenly moved to another, more complicated part of his chart, destroying all the basics he learned. “You are closed off all the time.”

Newt chuckled. It changed him so much, this sudden happiness. Or… maybe just ridiculousness, Thomas wasn’t sure. Only that the smile on his face looked amazing and made Thomas’ body tingle and mind begging for more. Such reaction scared him a little, waking up something dark and forgotten inside of his chest.

“Alright, let’s see,” Newt smirked, dropping his arms down along his body. The sudden relaxation was almost alien. “You want to know me? There. I can’t sleep. I hate stupid people. I like blue colour. I love your writing. I love how you describe everything. I believe your book is going to be a huge success. But I could do it without seeing you every day, without the constant questions and attempts to _know me_.”

Thomas felt his brain freeze. A deep, painful streak went right through him, piercing every possible hope he had right through, shattering it to pieces. Loved the writing. Hated Thomas.

Suddenly it was crystal clear. Suddenly it all made sense. One amazing day? Several disastrous followed. One nice thing in his life? He messed it up. As always. Being nosy, being forceful, being annoying. That was his life motto.

He felt the walls closing up around him again. The room suddenly got smaller and smaller. The air heavier and heavier.

_There are good qualities about you, honey. But you’re just impossible to live with. If you could just… switch off your brain for a moment? That would be great._

His throat was dry and he was surprised he could even speak after it. It was as if his brain disconnected from his mouth, going on automatic shutdown.

“So you like my writing, but you don’t like me,” Thomas said. It sounded surprisingly calm. He was on the edge of something big, something too painful, and it reminded him of the same thing that tended to happen to him over and over again. People he liked, people he admired, people that meant a lot. Leaving. Telling him to stuff it. Closing him off.

A pattern. Newt perfectly fitted in it. A person he knew for such a short time. A being that filled him with so much awe and lifted his spirits so high. Now crushing it all down again, showing him there is no point in trying anymore. That he wanted too much again. Pushed too far. He should have been content only with the bus stop meeting, receive him as an editor with a faked professionalism and keep it that way.

No, his stupid, idiotic brain had to start craving, had to want more, had to push and pull and bring it this far again.

“Yes,” Newt said, simply. A painful honesty that made Thomas’ mind venture into overdrive of self-loathing. “So maybe it would be better if you either get another different editor, a girl maybe, like my colleague Teresa, or-,”

Suddenly it snapped. Different editor? Taking all the light, all the possibility, all the stability he didn’t feel for so long away? No.

Nononononono. He couldn’t. That was impossible. No way.

He wasn’t even sure _when_ he moved, but suddenly he held the blond firmly against his own body, opening his mouth with his, kissing him desperately. He felt the power in him, the surge of strength and it all made sense. This person, he was everything. _Everything_ Thomas ever needed or wanted, he filled every weak spot, every insecurity, every pain. The light out of him was strong and addicting and Thomas couldn’t get enough. He wanted to keep him, he wanted to show him how he made him better, how he filled the gaps, he wanted him to _see_.

“Please don’t go,” he whispered against Newt’s lips pleadingly. “Please, stay. Please. You give me strength to do this, please.”

“Thomas-.”

“I wanted to give up,” – kiss – “But when I saw you at the bus stop, it all crashed back and you were,” – a lick and kiss at the corner of Newt’s mouth – “God, you just make me want to write and it’s all you, all about you, all for you.”

He heard Newt gasp in shock and it made him finally to pull back and rest his forehead against Newt’s, his whole body shaking, his head a mess. It was painful and raw and he couldn’t even find the right words, if any words at all, and he stared at the blond for several moments, panting and desperately trying to form a coherent thought. The face of the blond was an open shock and Thomas could almost hear the wheels in his head turning.

“I couldn’t…” Thomas’ voice shook, a tremor that made his whole being shiver. “Not another word, it just didn’t come. The first guy, he tried to get me to work, but I just couldn’t…”

“Gally?” Newt asked quietly, but the name didn’t mean anything to Thomas.

“I told him I won’t continue, it got heated,” Thomas mumbled, his hands slowly moving from Newt’s face to his neck, then shoulders, until they stayed on his arms, making sure he was still there, still solid. “I thought it’s just won’t work out. But… then I met you and… suddenly I got million ideas and formulations, and when your boss called about the continuation and if I gave up, I told him I can do it. And he sent you.”

Newt tried to get free and Thomas let him go. Suddenly he felt painfully hollow and unattached.

“Let me get this straight,” the blond spoke carefully, his voice even. “You wanted to stop writing. But because of me you still continue?”

“Yes,” Thomas answered shortly, keeping his eyes casted down in shame. He knew it sounded ridiculous. Unbelievable. Probably downfall creepy as well. But he couldn’t explain it, it just _was._ It existed and it felt how it felt – right and proper and absolutely amazing. Until today. Until he messed up again.

“So?” Newt required the explanation, his voice tight.

“I would like you to reconsider,” Thomas took a deep breath and finally looked back at him, the frightened thoughts of him leaving made him genuinely scared. He messed up even more. He kissed him, out of the blue. He kissed a man he knew for so short, someone who probably already hated his guts, and which now made him to hate him even more, probably with passion. Who with normal rational thoughts would leave immediately and never show his face around Thomas again. And yet he hoped, he _hoped so much_ it wasn’t the case and Newt would change his mind. “I know I just… I am sorry for what I did, it was unprofessional and it won’t happen again.”

“Yeah?” Newt frowned and the writer fidgeted a little. A bad sign. He was losing the battle so fast. He just hoped and he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and all those jumbled emotions of need and craving pumped through him like adrenalin.

“Unless you’d be willing, of course,” he added and knew right away it was the worst thing to say, ever.

“Well, that’s bloody precious,” Newt growled and started to pace, his body language screaming at Thomas with profanities. “Do you bloody realize that you just attacked me?!”

“I am sorry,” Thomas whispered, hunching to himself. “I panicked.”

“Oh you panicked!” Newt barked angrily. “That’s just golden!”

“I won’t do it again,” the writer insisted. He won’t, never, he won’t, _please, please, please, just stay._ “I won’t, so please. Just… please.”

“You are insane if you think I will be willing to meet with you again alone after this,” Newt pointed at him threateningly. “Or even willing to work with you knowing you are… I don’t even bloody know what you think you are doing. As if the character personification wasn’t bloody creepy enough!”

“I am sorry.”

The dark pit was opening and swallowing him whole, as if it was waiting for him to come back.

“You bloody should be!”

“I am.”

Of course it was waiting. He probably never left anyway.

“Are you in love with me?”

The question broke through all Thomas defences. It scattered his sanity around. It shredded it like a piece of paper. It left him vulnerable, with a gaping wound somewhere where his heart should have been, if it was still in one piece. He was out of it. He couldn’t even say yes or no. It was intense and fiery, the strongest emotion burning through him like a liquid fire. He didn’t really know if he said something or did something. It felt like his whole body was screaming YES, YES I DO, YES, PLEASE. YES! Even though his mind was protesting against such foolishness, telling him to stuff it, and _her_ voice laughing at him from the distance, calling him names and cooing at him with poisonous bites.

_Oh you do, you poor little lamb. You do and you hate it, and he will hate you too. Serves you right. Good for nothing. Crawl somewhere and die._

The loud bang of the door closing made the strings cut and Thomas crumbled on the floor like a dysfunctional marionette. It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end of my contribution to the SU series for now. I still have some bonus prompts for this, but I seriously need to move to the Online requests for now, and then I'd like to start something new. But I will definitely return to this later ^.^
> 
> Thank you all for reading, your patience and your support! It means a lot and I love you all <3

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetad!
> 
> Request fill for anonymous on Tumblr <3  
> Anonymous inquired:  
> if ur taking prompts (Staying Up): would u think bout writing Tommy's POV from the beginning till around the (forced) kiss scene? THe fic is from N POV, but I would love to see what was going through T head, what made him do what he did (after the kiss it's easier to decode T intentions but before that I can't get my head around his mindset) Was it love at first sigh? Or just inspiration in the beginning?
> 
> Hope it helped somehow. Writing from Thomas PoV was interesting, it made me, the author, understand him even better and for reason it made me a little more sad for him. But! All ended well :)


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